The Christmas Pen Part Four

by Donna Poole

“Aren’t you at least going to rinse the dinner dishes, Kat?” Mr. Ken asked.

She shook her head. “No time.”

She tried not to look impatient while he took his overcoat from the hall tree and put it on. His hands trembled over the buttons, and he nodded gratefully when she offered to button it for him. Then he knotted the red and green plaid scarf around his neck, tying it just so. And it seemed to take forever for him to pull on his leather gloves. Bent almost double, he tapped his gold tipped cane twice and smiled up at her.

“Aren’t you ready to go yet? What are we waiting for?”

Kathleen laughed. “Oh, Mr. Ken, some things are worth the wait. That’s what my grandpa always said.”

Ken almost fell when he slipped on the ice as they waited for a taxi. She caught him.

“Do you think a walker might be safer?”

“Maybe? Do they come with gold tips?”

Even in the cab he kept shivering. “Where are we going?” he asked, teeth chattering.

“I know you’d rather be under a warm blanket enjoying your Sunday afternoon nap, but I’m taking you for a Christmas surprise. Don’t ask questions.”

“Oh, Kat, old men are happiest at home. I don’t need anything I don’t already have there.”

“Don’t you, though?” she asked, giving him a mysterious smile.

He groaned when they pulled into the winding driveway of the Riverside Assisted Living and Memory Care.

“Kat! Just because I slipped on the ice once or twice! Have you arranged a tour here for me?”

She laughed. “It’s Christmas Day, remember? I don’t think they do tours on Christmas.”

“Then why are we here?”

“Just ride along with me.”

He gave her a sharp look.

“That couple I told you about who took me in when I was a tough street kid? Bill and Sheri? He used to say that to her when she tried to be a backseat driver. ‘Just ride along with me.’ She didn’t like it much. He knew it too. But they just looked at each other and laughed.”

Kathleen saw tears in his eyes behind his half glasses. He took off a leather glove, fished a handkerchief out of his pocket, and blew his nose.

“They were the kindest people God ever made, taking in a tough kid like me, giving me a place to live, and telling me about Jesus. I told them I’d never believe in Jesus, and I’m sure they thought I never did, after the way I left, stealing from them, and destroying Sheri’s Bible. I’d give anything to apologize and tell them they changed my life. But we don’t live looking in the rearview mirror. We aren’t going that way. Always go forward. You remember that Kat.”

“I will, Mr. Ken, but we can’t go anywhere if we don’t get out of this cab.”

The lobby was beautifully decorated, and a group of children was singing Christmas carols. Mr. Ken smiled and waved at them. Kathleen steered him down a hallway.

“Do we have to walk far?” he asked, leaning hard on her arm.

She shook her head. “Just a few doors.”

She stopped at a door decorated like a Christmas tree. It had a sign, “First prize for door decorating.” Ken looked for a name, but it was covered by the tree.

“Who are we going to see?” he asked.

She smiled and guided him inside.

“Grandma and Grandpa, I brought you a Christmas present.”

A tiny, fragile looking lady with white curls protested, “Kat, no gifts! You promised!”

A man Ken judged to be even older than himself chuckled. “You know our granddaughter, Sheri! She has a mind of her own, just like her grandma. So, what’s the present, kiddo? Let’s have it. I hope it’s chocolate!”

“Bill!” The old lady laughed. “You’re incorrigible! And you probably should let Kat introduce her guest before you start begging for candy.”

Bill? Sheri?

It couldn’t be. Ken’s mind struggled to keep up.

Kathleen led him closer to the older couple. “Grandma and Grandpa, this is my dear friend, Mr. Ken. He’s a retired pastor and an old friend of yours, but you knew him as Sam.”

She glanced at Ken’s face and lowered him into the armchair behind him just before he fell.

Sheri put one hand over her heart and struggled to catch her breath. “Bill! Honey? The scarf he’s wearing! It’s the gift I got you long ago, the one missing from under the tree when Sam left us on Christmas, the day we found my new Bible ripped apart and thrown under the tree…”

The angels congregated to hear the tears, laugher, and conversation that followed, and they whispered to each other, “Look. It’s another Christmas miracle.”

Two taps sounded on the door. Kathleen was the only one who heard it. She opened it and stared into the brilliant blue eyes of Johnny Dryden.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m the volunteer chaplain here. I come here every Sunday to get advice from Bill and Sheri, and they pray with me. What are you doing here?”

Kathleen’s grandpa hollered, “Hey, Johnny, come in! I want to introduce you to my granddaughter and tell you a story you aren’t going to believe!”

Johnny grinned. “I’ve already met your granddaughter, and I can’t wait to hear your story. He took Kathleen’s hand and guided her to a love seat under the window. They sat down, but he didn’t let go of her hand.

Kathleen’s grandma stared at her and raised an eyebrow. Kathleen shrugged.

“Young man, what are your intentions toward my granddaughter?”

Johnny looked at Kathleen and smiled. “To be determined.”

“Then perhaps you should let go of Kat’s hand while you work out the to be determined part.”

His face flushed. “Yes, ma’am.”

But he didn’t let go of her hand.

Kathleen laughed. So did her grandparents.

Mr. Ken said, “I’ve been expecting this.”

The three older people began reminiscing again.

Johnny said quietly, “I still want to get to know you, Kat Jones. What do you do in your spare time?”

“I’m writing a novel based on the years my grandparents spent at their country church.”

“I’d love to have you read it to me.”

“Maybe you could come for dinner sometimes. We could invite Mr. Ken too. He’s terribly lonely.”

He smiled. “I’d like that.”

Ken said, “My hearing’s pretty good for an old man. I better warn you, Johnny, she’s a terrible cook.”

“Yes,” Sheri said proudly, “she gets that from me.”

“I’ll bring takeout,” Johnny said.

“Wise decision,” Ken said, laughing.

“Oh, Grandpa, I almost forgot,” Kathleen said. “I want to show you how all this started.”

She tried to reach into her purse.

“Johnny, you’re going to have to let go of my hand.”

He flushed again.

Kathleen pulled out the antique red pen. “Mr. Ken fixed the pen you gave me.”

Ken nodded, pulled from his shirt pocket the pen that matched it, and showed it to Bill.

Bill’s eyes filled with tears. “You kept that pen I gave you all these years?”

Ken choked on the words. “I never forgot you. I kept the pen to remind myself of the man I was before your love and the love of Jesus changed me. Can you ever forgive me?”

“Forgive you? That happened on a long-ago Christmas afternoon when we got home from church, noticed the missing gifts, and saw the torn Bible under the tree. Sheri and I dropped to our knees and told God how much we loved you. We’ve prayed for ‘our Sam’ every day since.”

Kathleen went and hugged Ken who was crying. “It’s no wonder I loved you almost as soon as I met you. From the time I was a tiny girl, I’ve been praying for Grandma and Grandpa’s ‘Sam.’ And here we are, all together, because of the Christmas pen.”

Next, she hugged her grandpa. “Here,” she said, handing him the pen, “this belongs back with you, Grandpa. It’s a great reminder prayer can mend broken things. Even broken hearts.”

Kat sat on the loveseat and took Johnny’s hand. The sweet talk of the older ones flowed around them like a warm blanket until suddenly it became very quiet.

Johnny chuckled. “Look. They’re all sleeping. Do you think you should take Ken home so he can get a real nap?”

“I will soon,” she whispered, “but tell me. How did a Physician’s Assistant become a chaplain?”

“Well, I came here often to visit my grandpa who’s in heaven now. He was in the room next door, and one day I came into your grandparent’s room by mistake. Your grandpa was cleaning his collection of fountain pens, and I was intrigued. We got talking, and one thing led to another. He told me he’d been praying for someone to be a volunteer chaplain and. . . .”

The three old ones kept napping. The two younger ones kept talking. Outside the snow kept falling. And the angels kept listening to another Christmas miracle just beginning.

It’s 9:40 in the Morning

by Donna Poole

It’s 9:40 in the morning, and I’m sad. The world seems an emptier place just now, especially at this hour. I don’t know if anyone is praying for me. Before this, I always knew.

Maynard Belt was an important and well-known man. He did major things in his lifetime of eighty-one years, pastored four churches, served as the State Representative for the Michigan Association of Regular Baptist Churches, and did many other things. His last area of service was president of The Fellowship of Missions. I think that was his secret; he didn’t care a thing about positions or titles; he just wanted to serve.

To me, Maynard was something invaluable; he was a friend who prayed. A few years ago, he messaged me, “Donna, I have my watch alarm set for 9:40 a.m. every day to pray specifically for you.”

He didn’t pray just for me at 9:40; Maynard and his wife Ann prayed for John too.

He sent encouraging words, uplifting songs, Bible verses, and funny memes. One meme showed two clothes pins, one dressed as a bride, the other as a groom. They were kissing. The caption read, “They met online.”

With so many friends and responsibilities, I don’t know how he made time for us, but somehow, he did. Maynard kept tract of us, of my cancer treatments, of John’s heart catheterization.

When Maynard was reading R.C. Sproul’s biography he messaged,” I love biographies whether I agree with everything or not. One statement has stuck with me, ‘Right now counts forever!’ Many blessings your way and please let’s keep in touch.”

Maybe that’s how he made time to pray for so many people; he made his “right nows” count forever. As soon as possible after a difficult surgery he returned to teaching his Sunday school class, something he loved. In addition to everything else he did, Maynard wrote books. I don’t know how many. I know he wrote a book on affliction and books of poetry too.

In one of our last chats on Facebook messenger I thanked him for his prayers. I told him, “I wish for just a second we could see the heavenly network of prayers. You should write a poem about that!”

He replied, “Maybe after this conference.”

He was getting ready for the Fellowship of Missions Conference. Maynard, Ann, and one of their daughters flew there. The plan was for Maynard to retire after serving as twelve years as president.

But he didn’t retire. He got promoted instead.

Maynard developed breathing problems on the flight and a few days later, on a Sunday morning, he went to see the Lord he’d loved and served so many years. He never wrote the poem I suggested. He didn’t write the books he still planned to write. He didn’t get to enjoy retirement years with Ann.

In May of 2020 we were talking about wanting to hear God say, “Well done!” not “Nine-tenths well done.”

Maynard said, “9-10’s will not be sufficient. So we will go ALL the way for the Lord for He went ALL the way for us. Blessings!”

On September 11, 2022, Maynard Belt heard God say, “Well done!” because he was a man who knew how to make right now count forever. I’m happy for him, but sad for his family.

As I’m writing this his memorial service is just an hour away. I can’t be there, but I’ll watch on live stream.

When 9:40 a.m. comes around tomorrow, I don’t want that prayer slot to be empty. So, I’m going to try to remember to fill it with the neediest person God suggests to me. And the network of prayer will continue to grow until it fills the sky with an intricate pattern too lovely for poetry to describe.  

Too Much Interference

by Donna Poole

I thought I’d probably be dead by now.

I imagined any self-respecting woman with refractory cancer, one who’d flunked chemotherapy twice and radiation once, would give a resigned nod, gather her flowing robes regally about her cancerous self, and make a dignified exit. Off I’d go, gently, into that good night. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

See, right there, that’s my first problem. I wear comfy sweatpants these days and have no flowing robes. And I’ve never managed a dignified anything in my life. If someone told me to do a stately exit stage right, I’d trip, fall, laugh, and exit stage left.

Here’s my second problem. Even though at the time I looked like a half-starved Sphynx cat, hairless, bony, and needing to double knot my suddenly too large sweatpants, I wasn’t ready to quit fighting, and neither was my oncology team. They let me becone a guinea pig for a drug trial. The manufacturers of said drug pay for my many tests hoping they’ll show I’m the miracle patient who will propel their medication to market. Thanks to them, I think I’ve had a baker’s dozen PET scans and twice that many CTs all with contrast.

Think of the radiation! You know how they say some people light up a room? I really do! You may hear a buzzing noise like a high-powered wire if you sit too close to me, but God is using Epcoritamab. It’s keeping me alive.

There are other reasons I’m still on this side of the dirt. It’s true that laughter is good medicine. Very. Good. Medicine.

My crazy, funny family makes me laugh. My husband, John, is the worst of the bunch. The other day a receptionist was trying to set up an infusion for me for something unrelated to cancer and struggling to find a time to work me in.

“We’re short on nurses that day,” she explained.

“That’s okay,” John said. “We’ll take a tall one.”

That receptionist is well acquainted with John, so it wasn’t the first time she’d heard his puns. She asked me if he takes his stand-up comedy routine on the road.

John is a pastor, and yes, puns sometimes accompany his preaching. But he’s in good company.

Charles Spurgeon was a famous English preacher and author in the 1800s. A woman once rebuked him for too much levity from the pulpit; humorous preaching wasn’t all that common in the Victorian era.

“Ma’am,” he replied, “if you only knew how much I keep in, you would commend me!”

Our church family helps keep me cheerful. I wish you could meet them. They are the best people anywhere. They love me and show it in every way. And they make me laugh. I can’t go inside church because my oncology team keeps me isolated, so I listen from the parking lot. John brings me home verbal messages, cards, notes, and jokes.

Sunday John said, “This is to Donna from Dave.

“Eve got upset because Adam kept coming home late.

“‘Adam, is there another woman?’

“Eve! You know you’re the only woman!’

“That night Adam was almost asleep when he felt Eve poking him.

“Eve, what are you doing?’

“‘I’m counting your ribs!’”

And my church family, those dear people who travel down the gravel roads to meet at the white frame church on the corner—they pray for me. The ones who’ve moved away and only drive down the dirt roads now in their memories—they still pray for me.

And let me tell you more about our family! There are twenty-four of us now. Most of them will perform super-human exploits to rearrange schedules to get together whenever possible, and that does me more good than chemo ever could. A daughter has opened her large home for family gatherings.

A son and daughter-in-law have hosted family fun more times than I can count. I sit outside listening to a crackling bonfire as the first stars decorate the night sky and look around at the sweet faces of the family I love. How can I not hope, try, and pray to get well?

Then there’s the daughter who lives with us cooks delicious meals and coaxes me to eat. I hate to think what this house would look like if she hadn’t been cleaning it for the last two years. She does it all because she loves me.

Do you believe love can help keep someone alive? I do. Like laughter, it’s another medicine God uses until it’s His time to call someone Home. Love, and prayer.

All our grandchildren old enough to talk pray for me; it would be ungrateful of me to give up on life without a fight.

I know I owe much to the prayers of family, church family, and friends. We have one friend I haven’t seen for over two years, but I remember well how he prays. He begins with a long pause. After he says one quiet word, “Father,” he usually pauses again. I’m always tempted to open my eyes at that point, because I can feel God’s presence with us, and I want to see Him. But I don’t look.   

People I’ve never met from all over the world pray for me, including some of you. I’m grateful. And I’m glad I’m still here to pray for people who need me.

Whenever I’m tempted to give up, and yes, sometimes I feel like it, I think of all the people loving and praying. How can I die with so much interference?

My day will come though; it does for all of us, and I’m okay with that. It’s been a good life; if I could go back and start over, I’d choose the same one. I know where I’m going, and I like to think about heaven and everyone waiting for me there.  

“How are you, Donna?”

I get that question a lot. The answer is long and complicated.

Let’s just say I’m still on this side of the dirt. And I’m glad to be here.  

John laughing